


And the Band Played On

by Dancains



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1910s, Alternate Universe - Historical, Alternate Universe - Titanic Fusion, Angst, Attempted Suicide, Especially in regards to Ed, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, More season one type characterization, Period Typical Attitudes, RMS Titanic, Some deviations from the Titanic Plot
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-08
Updated: 2018-07-08
Packaged: 2019-06-07 02:28:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,277
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15208823
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dancains/pseuds/Dancains
Summary: When Edward, the son of wealthy Gotham factory owner Henry Samuel Nashton, boards the departing ship Titanic as an upper-class passenger alongside his parents, he's overcome with anxiety for the arranged marriage that awaits him back in America. Meanwhile, a Hungarian immigrant turned English domestic servant named Oswald Kapelput wins a third-class ticket for the voyage in a card game, unknowingly changing the courses of both of their lives on the fateful journey.





	And the Band Played On

**Author's Note:**

> The last thing I should be doing right now is start another multi-chap fic but once I started this it just seemed to write itself. It was really fun researching the time/setting ( but I swear I'll finish my others WIPs before updating this!)
> 
> In regards to this idea, it was something that had once crossed my mind while watching the film, but mordredllewelynjones on tumblr making a post about the concept was really the catalyst for this project.

_"The Titanic was called the ship of dreams. And it was. It really was."_

Southampton, England, April 10, 1912.

Edward could feel goosebumps dance across his skin as their motorcar rumbled onto Southampton dock and finally came to an abrupt halt in the middle of a teeming crowd. He peered out of the window to see where the gleaming white superstructure of  _Titanic_ rose mountainously beyond the rail, and above that where the buff-colored funnels stood against the sky like the pillars of a great temple. Crewmen moved across the deck, looking almost like ants, dwarfed by the awesome scale of the steamer. 

The hustle and noise around them, in itself something almost like a sentient creature, was nearly overwhelming to Edward's more delicate sensibilities (as his mother called them) but was still of immense interest to him. He ws so taken in by the sights around him that he almost didn't realize that their liveried driver had scurried over to his side of the motor car and opened the door. After the insistent brush of his mother's hand at his elbow, Edward stepped out onto the cobblestones and into what felt like new, uncharted territory.

"I don't see what all the fuss is about. It doesn't look any bigger than the _Mauretania,_ " scoffed Edward's father, having got out of the other side of the motorcar. He turned his hat in his hands, brushing some minuscule piece of dust from the felt before returning it to his head.

Back home, Henry Samuel Nashton was one of Gotham's most elite men of business; here, he was just one of many first class passengers that were boarding the newly-built ship. 

"Well, Father," Ed piped in timidly, "It's actually over a hundred feet longer than _Mauretania,_ and far more luxurious, as well as more technically advanced. For example, it has a high-powered radiotelegraph transmitter available for sending passenger 'marconigrams'-"

Henry silenced him with stern, withering glance. "Edward, be of use for once, and help your mother from the car."

"Yes, Father." He held a hand out for her as she lowered herself, carefully avoiding a small puddle between the cracked stones.

"So this is the ship they say is unsinkable," she murmured, glassy-eyed and impassive.

Ed had sensed on their first ship voyage to England that she had been nervous. His mother hadn't had much other opportunity to travel in her life, and had spent a great deal of the journey praying in her private quarters. Though, Ed thought to himself, that wasn't a significant departure from her usual habits.

"It is unsinkable. God himself couldn't sink this ship," said Ed, in an attempt of reassurance. Privately, he had long ago come to the conclusion that he didn't believe in a God, but had never publicly discussed his atheism, not wanting to give his parents yet another reason to be disappointed in him.

Far above them, he spotted a crane lifting a beautiful automobile onto the ship. From the looks of it, it was a Renault Coupé de Ville, but he couldn't be sure in the glinting sunlight. The model had just come out that year, and Edward would have liked to get a better look at the vehicle, but no doubt it would be deep in storage for the entirety of the passage.

As Henry began to instruct the servants to unload their copious luggage, a White Star Line porter approached them, no doubt harried by last minute loading. "Sir, you'll have to check your baggage through the main terminal, 'round that way-"

Henry casually handed him a five pound note, the crumpled bill making the man's eyes practically dilate. "I put my faith in you, then. See to it with my man." He gestured to their steely-haired butler, Lovejoy, who had been hovering behind them in silence all the while.

"Yes, Sir. My pleasure Sir," chirped the porter. Edward's father had often lectured him on the instant effect money had on "the unwashed masses".

"'Right," said Lovejoy to the porter, straight to business as usual, "These trunks here, and 12 more in the Daimler. We'll have all this lot up in the rooms..."

The White Star man looked stricken when he saw the enormous pile of steamer trunks and suitcases loading down the second motor car, including wooden crates and a steel safe. He whistled frantically for some cargo-handlers nearby, who came running.

Satisfied that the task was being taken care of, Henry quickly scanned his pocket watch. "We'd better hurry, Margaret. This way."

Edward trailed behind his parents towards the first class gangway, allowing himself to better observe the people around them. The Nashtons had arrived late, unlike most of the first class passengers who were avoiding the odious press of the dockside crowd by using an elevated boarding bridge, twenty feet above.

Edward was glad for it though. In their lives they were given few occasions to brush shoulder with common folk--their own servants notwithstanding--and the diversity of human nature fascinated Edward, not unlike the insects he would study under a magnifying glass as a child. 

His eyes roamed as they pass a line of steerage passengers in their coarse wool and tweeds, queued up inside movable barriers like cattle in a chute waiting for a health officer to examine their heads one by one, checking the scalp and eyelashes for lice. Out of the corner of his eye Edward noticed his mother's mouth curl with disgust.

"Edward," lamented his father, as they climbed the gang plank, "Don't dawdle."

Edward looked up as the hull of _Titanic_ loomed over them: a great iron wall, Bible black and severe. It was only then that his nervous excitement bled back into the harrowing dread he had been feeling that morning, and long before then.

Their three month stay with relatives in London was over, and now he was supposed to return to all of the immense responsibilities that awaited him in Gotham, the most significant of all being his upcoming marriage to Miss Isabella Kringle-Flynn. Even though he was already all of twenty-four years old, stepping through the ships door to D-deck felt as if he was finally stepping into manhood. That was his last thought as the black hull of _Titanic_ swallowed him whole.

 

Not far away, a pair of gray-green eyes watched the ship through the smudged glass window of a smokey pub, crowded with dockworkers and ships' crew. The pungent smell of drink and tobacco lingered so heavily in the air it was nearly suffocating.

Oswald Kapelput, the man who to whom the eyes belonged, sat at a rickety wooden table with four other young men. In the center of it sat the one object they were all fixated upon--a single third-class ticket for a voyage on the RMS _Titanic_ , lying amongst the crumpled bills and dull coins in the stack.

"Hit me again, Nikolai," said Oswald, cool and determined. His face betrayed nothing as he looked over his hand.

Salvatore, the heavy-set Italian to his left, licked his lips nervously as he refused another card. Over the low din of the pub crowd all four men could hear _Titanic's_ whistle in the distance--it's final warning.

"The moment of truth, gentlemen," said Oswald. "Somebody's life is about to change."

Sal put his cards down. So did the two Russians. Oswald held his close for a long second, reveling in the drama of it all.

"Come on," grunted Sal, " _Piccolo figlio di puttana,_  show us your damned cards."

With a sly grin, Oswald laid his cards down on the table. "Full house, boys."

The table exploded into shouting in several languages. Oswald raked in his copious winnings, pushing all of the currency into his worn leather satchel, the vessel which contained all of his worldly possessions. He clutched the ticket in his hands, still incredulous.

"If that's for _Titanic,_ you better be going quick, mate," drawled a dockworker at the next table over, an open pocket watch in hand, "Thing's set to leave in five minutes."

 _"Istenem,"_ Oswald muttered under his breath.  _Dear me._ Without sparing a further glance at his three fuming table mates, he was out of the pub, quick as a flash. For a moment he was overcome with worry that his bad leg would keep him from reaching what he knew was his destiny, but he fought through the pain as he pounded the cobblestones, weaving through the still thick knot of well-wishers. 

The _Titanic_ above him was monstrous in size as he grew closer, towering seven stories above the wharf and over an eighth of a mile long. He reached the bottom of the ramp just as an officer detached it at the top, and it started to swing down from the gangway door.

"Wait! I'm a passenger!" Oswald shouted, forcing the air from his already burning lungs. Flushed and panting, he waved the ticket above him like a flag of surrender.

"Have you been through the inspection queue?"

"Of course!" he lied automatically.

Looking dubious, the man still relented, "Right, come aboard."

Quickly, the Quartermaster reattached the gangway, and with one cursory glance at the decidedly Russian name on the ticket, Oswald was aboard. Soon he was rushing down a white-painted corridor, grinning from ear to ear. In that moment he felt as if he was the luckiest man in the world.

Suddenly, from one of the open ports, he heard an enormous cheer--the ship was finally being launched. A whistle blew sharply somewhere above him. Finding what he assumed were the third-class stairs, he climbed them until he reached the open air of the aft-well deck. Joining the other steerage passengers at the ship's rail, he peered down at the vibrant crowd below. Even though he didn't personally know a soul down there, he was tempted to wave, if only to join in with the other passengers' jubilation at their fair luck.

Gripping the cool steel rail with one hand, his other went to the small medallion hanging from his neck, warmed from the proximity to his skin. He knew the image by heart as he traced it under his thumb, the emblem of St. Christopher--the patron saint of travelers. It was one of the few small things his mother could afford to give him when he was sent away from the manor house that they had worked at in the English countryside, forcing him to travel a great distance in search of new opportunities.

Despite his humble background, he had always had a feeling of certainty deep inside that one day he would become a great success--and he considered this afternoon to be proof of that eventual fate. Whether from his artistic gifts or purely from his own shrewd, opportunistic nature, he knew he would make it big in America, and one day would be able to send for Gertrud, so she could live in the lap of luxury that she so rightfully deserved.

Pressing his lips to the pendant in a silent almost-prayer, he resolved to send her a telegram at the first possible occasion, informing her of his good fortune. With this thought still lingering in his mind, he decided it was time to search for his shared, steerage level cabin far below.

On a very different part of the ship, the Nashton family was settling in to their two adjoining staterooms. From the brief glance he had given his own bedroom, Edward decided it wasn't much different than the ostentatious style of their manor at home, all hardwoods, marble, and gilt.

He distractedly took the drink that the room service waiter had placed into his hand--complimentary orange juice and champagne in a tulip glass--as he sorted through his book and papers.

"Did you really need to buy all of those books in London?" his father asked, coming in from their private covered deck. "It's not as if we don't have shelves and shelves of them at home."

Edward didn't respond, knowing from past experience that attempting to explain to his father how many of them were brand new scientific periodicals on a variety of fascinating subjects would be met with complete disinterest. 

"Not to mention these ghastly, morbid things," Henry continued, unfurling one of the large medical diagrams his son had purchased at the Royal Institution of Sciences, having planned to frame them on his return. 

Edward had been delighted to find the generously sized diagrams of the different human body systems, larger and easier to examine than any illustrations he had seen in books, along with other large prints of biological diagrams of animals, fauna, and insects. 

"I think they're a display of great artistic skill that not many possess," he replied carefully, "combined with the natural beauty of science and biology." He picked up one print labeled Avians of North America, "Especially this one, with the birds. I think even Mother would agree it was nice to look at."

"Perhaps. At least you said they were cheap." Anything else he might have said was interrupted by a porting wheeling in Henry's private safe on a handtruck.

"No, no not this stateroom," said Henry, "the other one, put it in the wardrobe, here..."

As he left in the wake of the safe, Edward was glad for a moment of solitude. He suspected his father would have much preferred to talk of shooting birds as compared to studying them--Henry had often bragged that his success in life had little to do with "book knowledge" and more to do with "real knowledge" and physical experience. Mostly, it had to do with the fact that he had already been born into significant wealth.

Edward idly traced one of the images of the birds in front of him with a finger, an unpleasant memory resurfacing in his mind. Suddenly he was only a small child, back in Gotham. His father had taken him someplace rural, upstate, to shoot pheasants for the first time. Edward had handled the hunting rifle fine as his father showed him how to load it, even then finding himself fascinated by mechanical things. 

It was only when it came time to shoot one of the birds, carelessly pecking about in the underbrush,completely unaware of the nearby human predators, that Edward found himself unable to shoot. He could sill recall in vivid detail, the shine of the blue-green feathers around its throat, and the soft clucking that he could hear even from the distance. He couldn't go through with it. 

That was his earliest memory of being belted by his father, but certainly not his last. His other hand tightened around the drinking glass, almost tight enough to shatter. The view outside his porthole soon faded into a dim violet as dusk came over the ship and all that were aboard.

It was the next day, in the warm, golden light of the afternoon, that Oswald decided to explore the ship to the fullest extent he could, his sketchbook tucked under his arm. He was still pleasantly sated from his last meal--even the basic third-class fare was an improvement on his usual diet, and to be eating it off of a table covered with white linen made him feel akin to royalty. 

His wanderings brought him to the bow of the ship where he stood gripping the curved railing. He leaned over, looking down fifty feet to where the prow sliced through the water's surface like a knife, parting the glassy spray. He could only imagine the stokers in the boiler room, deep in the belly of the ocean liner, men covered with sweat and coal dust, their muscles working like part of the machinery as they toil to keep _Titanic_ afloat. 

Suddenly, something caught his eye. In the waves, two dolphins appeared, swimming fast just in front of the steal blade of the prow. Oswald imagined that they swam just for the sheer joy and exultation of motion. He felt a grin on his face as they breached the surface only to dive back in, crisscrossing in front of the bow, dancing in front of the juggernaut.

Gazing across the Atlantic, with the wind blowing his dark, choppy hair into disarray, he wished he had someone to enjoy this moment of reverie with. He thought of James, back in England, and how it was likely Oswald would never see him again. Pushing the thought from his mind, he put himself back into the moment. He still felt as he was the king of the world.

His leg finally growing sore from his wanderings, Oswald trawled back to where more passengers were enjoying the sun and air, and plopped down on a bench to work on some drawings. He pulled up his knees, resting his sketchbook against them and began to sketch with a conté stick.

The scene starts out vague, until he really starts hatching in the details. A man and his young daughter looking over the rail particularly catch his eye. Their pose in that--her in profile with one arm reaching out to point at the horizon, him holding her steady and secure, the both of them silhouetted by sunlight--would forever be immortalized in the lines of charcoal on the page.

It wasn't long after he sat down that a uniformed crew member passed by along the deck, walking three small dogs on leashes. From the looks of their silken fur, Oswald thought that the dogs were probably bathed more often than he had the chance to.

"That's typical," drawled a young man with a rough English accent, sitting on the adjacent bench, "First class dogs come down here to take a shit."

"That's so we know where we rank in the scheme of things," Oswald quipped.

"Like we could forget," the Englishman scoffed, still in good humor.

Losing interest in his sketch, which was nearly finished, Oswald glanced up above them to the B-deck, where a young man stood, wearing an olive colored tweed suit. Strangely, Oswald found himself unable to take his eyes off of this man. He was tall, handsome in a sharp, slender sort of way, and emanated what Oswald decided was a regal bearing. He was carrying a leather bound volume in the crook of one arm, and the sunlight glinted off of his well-polished spectacles as he studied something in the distance.

The bespectacled man turned suddenly, and looked right at Oswald. Oswald knew he was caught staring, but he still didn't look away. The man did, but then looked back again, their eyes meeting across the space of the well deck, across the gulf between worlds.

The tenuous thread broke only when an older woman, perhaps a relation, came up beside the bespectacled man, drawing his attention away with some conversation that seemed to displease him.

"Gawkin' at the likes of us like we was a zoo, I suppose," said the man to his left, breaking Oswald from something akin to a trance, "Doesn't do much good to stare back. Don't blame 'ya for feeling jealous maybe, especially looking at that fancy kit and all."

Oswald nodded half-heartedly in response. He had recognized his own feelings when he locked eyes with the stoic stranger, and it certainly hadn't been jealousy.

 

That night, Edward sat in the first class dining room, flanked by people in animated discussion, but not paying attention to a single word of it. In that moment he saw his whole life as if he'd already lived it... an endless parade of parties and cotillions, yachts and polo matches... always the same narrow people, the same mindless chatter. But more prominently in his mind than that, was the woman to whom he was engaged. On paper, everything about her was perfect, and by extension their union should be perfect as well. 

Still, all the time he had spent around Isabella, he had a creeping feeling that he was making a mistake. That she was plastering a smile on her face because she was supposed to, not because she actually cared for him, that deep down she could barely tolerate his incessant chattering and strange habits. Edward worried that just like he could never live up to his father's expectations, he would never be able to keep her satisfied. Their imagined wedding night had played out countless times in his mind, the thing that most young men looked forward to with lustful anticipation, but instead filled him with dread, anxiety, and even disgust. 

Treacherously, his mind drifted back to the young man who had caught his eye earlier that day on deck, how an unnamed feeling had pulled at his gut in a way Isabella could never make him feel. He felt like he was standing at a great precipice, with no one to pull him back, no one who cared...or even noticed the inner turmoil he was experiencing.

No one batted an eye when he got up from the table, mumbling something about feeling unwell to no one in particular. He had meant to return to his stateroom, but then it seemed that his legs were taking him in the completely opposite direction. 

Soon he was running along the deck in full force, towards the stern, a horrible desperation taking over him. His whole body was shaking from emotions he could barely comprehend, hopelessness and self-hatred and something indescribable in the pit of his stomach clawing to get out. Running up the last short flight of stairs he found himself alone on the stern deck, his breath now hitching in irregular sobs. Forcefully, he slammed against the base of the stern flagpole and clung there, panting. He stared out at the black water.

Then, oddly calm, he started to climb over the railing. Moving methodically he turned his body to properly set his patent-leather evening shoes on the white-painted gunwale, his back to the railing, facing out towards the expanse of night. Sixty feet below him, the massive propellers were churning the Atlantic into white foam, leaving a ghostly wake trailing off toward the horizon.

He leaned out, his arms straightening as he looked down hypnotized, into the vortex below her. His hair, slicked perfectly with brilliantine earlier that day, was a mess of curls blowing in the wind. The only sound, besides the rush of water below, was the flutter and snap of the Union Jack above him.

"Don't do it."

Edward whipped his head around at the sound of a voice. It took a second for his eyes to focus in the poor light.

   
"Stay back! Don't come any closer!" he shouted, hoping the stranger couldn't see the gleam of tears on his cheeks.

A man stepped forward, approached Edward cautiously. Not just any man, he belatedly realized, but the one who had caught his eye earlier that day. _No, no, no! why on earth did it have to be_ him _to intervene._

"Take my hand. I'll pull you back in," he told Edward, speaking with some kind of strong European accent though clearly well-versed in English. 

"No! Stay where you are. I mean it. I'll let go."

"No you won't," the stranger retorted confidently. The sea winds whipped at his raven colored hair. At this distance Edward could now see his lean face and sharp features properly, down to the dusting of freckles across his aquiline nose.

How dare this man, Edward internally fumed. "What do you mean no I won't? Don't presume to tell me what I will and will not do. You don't know me."

"You would have done it already. Now come on, take my hand."

Edward's eyes were so wet with tears, that he brought up a hand to wipe at them, almost losing his balance. "You're distracting me," he cried in frustration, "Go away."

"I can't. I'm involved now. If you let go I have to jump in after you."

"Don't be absurd. You'll be killed."

The man shed his thread worn suit jacket, dropping it to the deck. "I'm a good swimmer." He started unlacing his left boot.

"The fall alone would kill you." Edward knew it wasn't entirely true but he said it anyway.

"It would hurt. I'm not saying it wouldn't. To be honest, I am very much more concerned about the water being so cold."

Edward looked down. The reality factor of what he was doing sinking in. He had read extensively about weather conditions in the Atlantic before they had set sail, but the temperature had been the last thing on his mind these past few minutes. He didn't say anything.

"I'm sure it's freezing. Maybe a couple degrees over." He started unlacing his right boot, his left already off. "Have you ever been to Hungary?"

Edward was perplexed by this shift in conversation. "No."

"Well they have some of the coldest winters around, and I grew up there, in a place called Lugos. Once when I was a child, my grandfather and I were ice-fishing out on a lake...ice-fishing is when you cut a hole in the-"

"I know what ice fishing is!"

"My apologies. Just... you look like the indoors type. Anyway, I went through some thin ice and I will tell you, water that cold--like that right down there--it hits you like a thousand knives all over your body. You can't breath, you can't think--at least not about anything but the pain." He slipped the second boot off. "Which is why I am not looking forward to jumping in after you. But like I have said, I don't see a choice. I suppose I am hoping you'll come back over the rail, and get me, how do you say, 'off the hook' here."

"You're crazy."

"With all due respect, I'm not the one hanging off the back of a ship. He slid one step closer, as if he was moving up on a spooked horse. "Come on. You don't want to do this. Give me your hand."

Ed stared at this madman for a long time. He looked at his eyes and they somehow suddenly seemed to fill his universe.

"Alright."

He unfastened one hand from the rail and reached it around towards the man, who reached out to take it, firmly.

"My name is Oswald Kapelput," the stranger introduced himself.

Pleased to meet you, Mr. Kapelput," Edward responded, his voice still quavering. My name is Edward Na-" As he started to climb over, a shoelace snagged, and one foot slipped off the edge of the deck.

He plunged, letting out a piercing yelp. Oswald, still gripping his hand, was jerked toward the rail. Edward barely could grab a lower rail with his free hand in the moment of peril. He was too frightened for words.

"I've got you. I won't let go."

Oswald held his hand with all his strength, bracing himself on the railing with his other hand. Edward tried to get some kind of foothold on the smooth hull as Oswald attempted to lift him bodily over the railing. Unable to find proper footing in his smooth-soled evening shoes, he slipped back with jerk, letting out another noise of alarm.

Oswald, awkwardly clutching at him by whatever means he could, finally managed to pull him over the railing. They fell together onto the deck in a tangled heap, the both of them rolling until Oswald was laid partly on top of him.

Seemingly out of nowhere, though probably alerted by the noise, a crewman slid down the ladder from the docking bridge, and sprinted across the fantail.

"Here, what's all this?!"

He ran up to pull Oswald off of him, revealing Edward's dishevelled evening clothes, and his spectacles hanging partly off of his face. He looked at Oswald, the shaggy steerage man with his jacket off, and the first class gentleman clearly in distress, and started drawing conclusions. Two seamen, having jogged across the deck, joined them.

"Here you, stand back! Don't move an inch!" he told Oswald, before turning to instruct the crewmen, "Fetch the Master at Arms."

It took Edward a few long seconds to process the scene, and, more importantly, what exactly the quartermaster thought had been happening. He soon began berating Oswald as a thief, accusing him of assaulting a first class passenger in order to rob him. Edward was grateful that the awkward tableau they had painted hadn't been misinterpreted as something worse.

It was only a moment later that Oswald was being handcuffed by the burly master at Arms, apparently the closest thing to police on board, and Edward's parents had been summoned from the dining room, followed by their butler, Lovejoy, and another man from their table, Colonel Nathaniel Barnes.Barnes, still holding his brandy snifter, offered it to Edward, who sat hunched on a bench and waved away thee drink. 

Meanwhile, Henry was steaming with fury. He grabbed Oswald by the lapels.

"What made you think you could put your hands on my son? Look at me, you filth! What did you think you were doing?!"

"Father, stop!" Edward pleaded, "It was an accident."

"An accident?"

"It was... stupid really. I was leaning over and I slipped." He pointedly caught Oswald's eye. "I was leaning way over, to see the... ah... propellers. And I slipped and I would have gone overboard... but Mr. Kapelput here saved me and he almost went over himself."

Henry rolled his eyes, his anger immediately shifting from Oswald to his son, "You wanted to see the propellers and you almost fell? Really, boy, serves you right for your carelessness--as usual."

"Was that the way of it?" the Master at Arms asked Oswald.

"That was it," Oswald replied calmly. He looked at Edward a moment longer; now they had a secret together.

"Well! The boy's a hero then," said Colonel Barnes, "Good for you son, well done," He turned back to the older Mr. Nashton, "So, it's all's well and back to our brandy, eh?"

Oswald was uncuffed. Henry grabbed Edward roughly by the elbow, lifting him to his feet.

His mother was more sympathetic, though just barely. "You should probably get inside Edward. With your poor health you're likely to catch cold."

Henry made to leave, but stopped when Barnes said to him in a low voice, "Ah... perhaps a little something for the boy?"

"I suppose. Mr. Lovejoy, a twenty should do it."

"Is that the going rate for saving your only child?" Edward mumbled daringly under his breath.

"Perhaps you could join us for dinner tomorrow, as further compensation?" piped in Margaret. Both her husband and son turned in surprise. Edward was strangely touched by the gesture, coming from a woman who was usually so cold and indifferent.

"Yes, I would love to," Oswald replied, looking only at Edward. 

"Fine. That's settled then," concluded Henry, departing with his wife and son in tow, clearly disgruntled.

"Could I bum a cigarette?" Oswald asked, as their valet passed to leave.

Lovejoy smoothly drew a silver cigarette case from his jacket and snapped it open. Oswald took a cigarette, then another, popping it behind his ear for later. He let Lovejoy light the one in his hand.

"You'll want to tie those," said the butler, gesturing at Oswald's boots. "Interesting that the young master slipped so unexpectedly and you still had time to take of your jacket and shoes. Hmm?" Lovejoy's expression was bland, but his eyes were cold. He turned away to join his employer.

Oswald was left to enjoy the warmth of the cigarette on deck, watching the stars above him and contemplating his strange luck, before finally retiring to steerage.


End file.
